To Be A Master
by Marius-the-Great
Summary: Over 40 years after the death of Voldemort, Britain is controlled by a very different evil. The Order of the Phoenix sends its newest recruit, Rose, on a mission to find Harry Potter and bring him home, whether Harry wants to go or not. Fully canon compliant minus Epilogue. Harry/Hermione/OC Adventure and Drama.
1. Chapter 1

**To Be a Master**

 **Prologue – The Year 2039**

She found the man standing alone in a small clearing where he had built a hut. The forest was everywhere around them, thick and green and shadowed; some primordial remnant of an older world. The clearing, then, was presumably man-made for it was clearly out of place in the wilds of this wood.

She found herself filled with nerves and a degree of uncertainty she had not been feeling before. So much had happened for her, so much had changed. Everything in her life had seemingly been leading to this moment. Every trial and every struggle. Each night spent sleepless and in wistful longing. And the whirlwind of adventure that had swept her along out of nowhere, with no regard for desires or choice. All of it had led her to this moment: a German forest and the haunt of a man who until recently may as well have been a myth to her. And yet here she stood; a girl, orphaned and alone, holding on to one shred of hope that this man, this complete stranger, might hold the key to her troubled heart.

She could feel it again, as she'd felt it before…with _him._ No, not the man in the woods; the other him. The monster. She felt it in this place more strongly than ever. The magic. It called to her. She could feel it gently moving in the very air of this place, being carried along by the wind. She could feel it in the soft crinkling of the leaves and the hard, weathered bark of the trees, so old that perhaps no age could be given them. There was power here, old and strong and true, yet… _new_ as well. To her, at least. She was clumsy as an infant in this world, this realm of magic and power that you could _feel_ ; but she felt now for the first time that perhaps, just perhaps, she might have been coming home. For it felt familiar to her, even as it felt so strange and new. And there in the middle of it all stood him; the very embodiment of myth and legend, but very much flesh and blood and _alive._ That is what she felt most of all. This place was alive and she could feel every inch of it flooding her senses.

The man was wearing robes that had once been black but had long since begun to fade. He was hooded like some mythical wizard, the billowing of his robes in the wind only adding to the mythical appearance of it all. He was not looking at her, for his back was turned. She wondered if he even realized that she was here.

Almost as if in answer to her thought, the man began to slowly turn her way, as if he had been standing still for years and had forgotten how to move. Her heart began to hammer and thud so loud she could swear the dead could hear it. And in a place such as this perhaps they could. To see his face…she was about to see _his face_.

The way his name was used it was almost like a prayer. As a child she'd heard it whispered in awe and admiration. Among the Order, those people she'd only just met before embarking on her journey, she'd heard it spoken with something else: reverence. To put a face to the name, after all these years, was indescribable. How could she ever prepare for a moment like this?

What she had expected, well, even she did not know. But as the man completed his turn to face the new arrival it was something of a surprise, and perhaps even a little bit of a letdown, to see that he was…just a man.

His hair, like the robes he wore, had once been black as pitch, but was now liberally streaked with gray. His face was lined and he wore a beard that, frankly, was a tangled mess. Casting her eyes to his forehead she would have missed it had she not known that it was there. In among the other lines and creases mottling his brow was a jagged scar, crudely shaped like a bolt of lightning. She'd thought that it would stand out more, the way people talked about it but in his old age it was barely even noticeable. In fact, he looked entirely ordinary and, again, perhaps a little disappointing. He did not stand particularly tall, nor was his frame especially corded with muscle. Whatever she had thought the mythical Harry Potter would look like, it was not this.

The one element of his appearance that gave her pause were his eyes, for they were the brightest color she could see; a vivid green that seemed to live even as the green of the forest in which they stood. She took the opportunity to look into his eyes and saw that they reflected pure surprise. It appeared she had startled him.

Slowly, she began moving toward him.

With trembling fingers, she undid the clasp at her side, unsheathing the ancient artifact that had been entrusted to her. During her long weeks of travel she had taken much time to examine it, carefully memorizing its every detail, from its length and width to the intricate carvings adorning its outer shell. As little as she understood, she realized that the artifact's true power lay on the inside. She also understood that what appeared to be a foot and a half long stick was in fact the most powerful weapon in existence. At least, that's what Hermione had said.

And so it was with reverence for its power that she tentatively extended her arm and offered to reunite the Elder Wand with its master.

A stiff breeze jostled them both, old timer and newcomer alike. Her wind-whipped hair surely made her appear somewhat foolish, a sensation that grew only stronger the longer she stood with her arm outstretched, extending the fabled wand to a man who seemed reluctant to take it. Long moments passed in silence, neither one of them making a move. If something did not happen soon her arm would tire; it was already beginning to shake.

Just as she was wondering what on earth it would take to get this man to make a move, a chance flicker allowed their eyes to lock. Now she was by no means an expert at reading emotions, particularly emotions conveyed only through a person's eyes, but she was certain the blend she saw was an odd one. There was surprise; that one had been there from the beginning. She also noted confusion, anger, and could it possibly be even a little bit of fear?

 _Curious_.

What happened next set the girl's heart hammering even more fiercely than before; he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, a look of apparent resignation on his face. When he opened his eyes, he reciprocated the girl's action, reached out his arm and clasped the Elder Wand with calloused, weathered fingers.

Taking it from her, he cradled it in his hands as though it were a newborn baby and fixed it with a gaze that was virtually unreadable. Certainly it was beyond the girl's ability to decipher. But her attention was diverted a few moments later when the man suddenly spoke.

"Where did you get this?"

His voice was hard and gravelly, more from disuse than any natural tendency toward roughness. He fixed her with a gaze that shocked her in its intensity; he expected an answer. Deciding not to beat around the bush now that she'd finally gotten the man to talk, she dove right in.

"Hermione Weasley gave it to me. She said it belonged to you and that you would know what to do with it."

Harry Potter's face betrayed no emotion at this. Instead he pressed her further. "How did you find this place? Who are you?"

Ah, of course, he would want to know that. How could she possibly explain something that she did not fully understand herself? Who was she? Well, that much at least, she was able to answer; at least partly.

"My name is Rose. I'm a member of the Order of the Phoenix." It was true…sort of. She had only met the motley collection of freedom fighters and rebels only a few short weeks ago, yet there could be no doubt that they had adopted her as one of their own, and she had followed suit, latching onto the sense of camaraderie and belonging she had been sorely lacking for so long. But was she really a member of this band? Technically, from a certain point of view, what she was doing right now, retrieving Harry Potter from his current state of isolation, might be viewed as her first official mission for them.

As for how she found his forested hideout…well, that was another matter. How did one explain that this forest…this clearing…this hut…this _magic_ had haunted her dreams since she was a small girl? Maybe _haunted_ wasn't exactly the correct word but it was the only one that came immediately to mind. The truth was that her dreams of this place, whenever she dreamt them, were not unpleasant. She always felt as if she were complete whenever she would take her nighttime sojourns into the forest. As though a part of her that was missing from her waking life had been reunited with her in slumber. How did she explain that she could feel the forest calling to her, guiding her, gently nudging her along the correct path to its depths from the moment she had resolved, with Hermione's warm encouragement, to find it?

She did not know how to explain all that, so she simply replied "I've seen this place before."

"Not likely," Potter said flatly. "This clearing has been forgotten since Roman times. It had been hidden for more than 1,500 years when I found it. Tell me the truth. _How did you find this place?_ "

"I dream about it," said Rose in a rush. "On and off ever since I was a little girl. I don't know how to explain it any better than that."

Something in Rose's voice must have stirred something in Potter because he ceased his rather brusque interrogation upon hearing that. He continued looking at her rather blatantly for some time, occasionally alternating by examining the Elder Wand. There were so many questions on her mind, so many things she wanted to ask right away but was unsure how to proceed. So she just stood there silently while he turned the wand over and over with his fingers before resuming his almost frightened study of her face.

"Why did Hermione send you to me? Did you tell her about these dreams?" Rose did not immediately respond, so he said "I haven't seen or heard from anyone out there in a very long time; I'd like to know what's changed. Why now?"

Phrased that way, this was a question Rose was actually able to answer. "The Ministry has taken over all of Britain, magic and muggle alike. Britain is a slave island, ruled with an iron fist by Sallust DeVernai. He's wiped out nearly every magical family in the country and most of the others are either in prison camps or on the run. The Order of the Phoenix is the only light shining through right now. Britain needs you. We need Harry Potter. We need the Chosen One."

At this, Potter did the unthinkable; he actually _laughed_. It was a cruel laugh, though, filled not with humor or mirth but with bitterness and cold irony.

"Oh that's rich, yes well done! Tell me, did you practice that speech the whole way here?"

Rose was dumbfounded. "What?"

Potter continued to smirk coldly. "Whatever is happening in Britain has nothing to do with me. I don't even _live_ in Britain. Surely you've realized this but we're actually in _Germany_. Whatever Britain needs, it isn't me."

This was not how this was supposed to go. "How can you say that?" Rose asked. "Britain was your home; your friends are there, your family!"

"I think you might be a bit confused as to the finer details of who I am, young lady, so I'll clarify them for you. I have no family. My parents died many years ago. I have no siblings, no wife, no children, and the two blood relations I once had are also dead. I am _not_ the Chosen One despite what you may have read in old newspapers, though I'll credit you with the fact that you didn't come here looking for the _Boy Who Lived_ …"

Potter's eyes had gone hard now and he gripped the Elder Wand tightly in his fist. "I don't know what Hermione Weasley expected to get out of sending you here but whatever it was, she was mistaken. I'm sorry you had to waste your time making the trip here; I know it was not an easy task to find me. I will keep the Elder Wand only because it seems Mrs. Weasley cannot be trusted not to rob an old man's grave. When you go back, tell her that I wish her all the best but…"

Whatever he had been about to say remained stuck in his throat. A crackle of magic rent the air and sent a chill so far down his spine that for a moment his body reacted purely on primordial instinct. It took several steps back of its own accord.

Nothing had visibly changed. There were no sparks, no lightning bolts, no aura of power. But it was undeniably from the girl Rose that the magic was emanating, in larger quantities than Potter had thought possible.

"Who are _you?_ " This time it was Rose who asked the familiar question.

"What?" Potter said somewhat shakily.

"I said 'Who are _you_?' I was under the impression that I had found Harry Potter, the man who defeated Lord Voldemort by _offering his own life_ in exchange for his friends. But it seems that you are not that man. Could you kindly direct me to where I might find him?" Her words were spoken with steel and flint, and edged so sharp that Potter outwardly grimaced.

"You don't understand what you're asking me to do," he said quietly.

"Of course I do. I'm asking you to come back home and help us in the fight against the darkness. I'm asking you to be the hero everyone knows you are. Or at least the one you used to be."

Something about her tone, her self-assuredness, reminded him so much of Hermione that he had to smile, just once, despite himself. "It's been a long time since somebody spoke to me like that." Potter heaved an enormous sigh and looked far more elderly than his fifty-eight years. "Rose," he said more softly, "may I call you that?" She nodded her assent.

"Rose, you have to understand that I never expected anyone to find me here. The fact that _you_ did is…frankly, astonishing. I came here for a reason. Britain is better off without me, despite what some well-meaning people might believe. I am truly sorry to hear of the suffering that's taking place but I…I've been here for so long. You don't understand…"

"Then _help me understand_." She had taken a step forward and placed a hand on his arm, causing his eyes to dart upward. It was only then, at that precise moment, that Harry Potter noticed for the first time something he had somehow overlooked before. Rose's eyes were the exact shade of green as his own.

Harry lost himself in their depths for quite some time. Finally, he shook his head and gently extracted his arm. "Fine. Come with me."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1 – The Year 2039**

Potter led her some twenty yards away in the direction of the small wooden hut she had seen before and which, she assumed, was his home. He appeared to have logged the timber himself from the surrounding trees, the little house sharing not only the forest's appearance but also the same curious, lively manifestation of what Rose could only refer to as magic.

Her initial reception had not been exactly what she had planned or expected. His reluctance to hear her out was an unforeseen snag in what was supposed to be a relatively brief detour along her path to vengeance and the realization of her new powers. It had even gone beyond that; Potter had been downright rude. She could not imagine what the man was thinking as he led the way down a small slope, she keeping a brisk pace behind him. Still, he had agreed to speak to her further, even inviting her, apparently, into his home. That was a good sign. Perhaps he had simply forgotten how to be polite living all these years by himself in the woods. Maybe the isolation had driven him slightly mad. Yes, that was a distinct possibility, though not a particularly happy one. There were enough mad men in Britain as it was; she did not need to bring back another one.

Thinking back to the last conversation she had had before leaving the Order's headquarters, Rose summoned all of the positivity she could muster. "I must warn you," Hermione had told her, "Harry can be a bit stubborn. _Quite_ stubborn in fact. When he sets his mind on something it can be practically impossible to convince him to change course."

She had smiled indulgently at that. "I'm sure once I explain where I've come from and who's sent me he will jump at the chance to help us. He is your best friend, right? That's what all the stories say. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley: the Golden Trio. Though I guess you haven't been a _Granger_ in a long time, huh?" Both women's smiles had faltered then, the loss still fresh and unhealed. "I'm sorry…" Rose began.

"Don't be," Hermione said kindly, placing her hand on top of her own. "Memories should not be avoided, especially happy ones. Yes, Harry was once my best friend. I only wish he had told me where he was going; I'd go get him myself." She'd sighed then, at that moment seeming to carry all the burdens of a nearly sixty year old woman who had seen the world end. "A very great man once said 'Harry is the best hope we have; trust him.' Now I'm saying it to you again. I _believe_ in Harry Potter. Tell him that for me, when you find him. Tell him _I believe in him_. Even if he doesn't."

Rose had not quite understood what that had meant at the time. _Even if he doesn't._ Hermione, it seemed, had taken the measure of her old friend quite well. She wondered what had happened to make the great Harry Potter's spark die out.

"Did you bring an appetite?" Potter asked suddenly.

Her stomach growled at the mere mention of food. It had been quite a tiring journey. "Yes, actually," Rose said pleasantly. "I'm _starving_." Potter merely grunted his response as he swung the heavy wooden door open and crossed the threshold.

The inside was very sparsely furnished. This place made her old digs in the West London camp look like a palace in comparison. The floor was dirt, there was no seating other than a moss covered protrusion she supposed might pass for a bed, and a single chair placed at a crudely carved table.

"There's not much seating," Potter said unnecessarily. "I don't have company. Ever."

"I'll just sit…over there," she said, indicating the mossy protrusion. "Did you build this place yourself?"

"Why? Does it show?"

He set down a plate (well, she supposed it was supposed to be a plate) in front of her with two brown, misshapen lumps atop it. Then he set down something that was recognizably a goblet and began to pour her a drink.

"Thank you," Rose said gratefully. "What are these?" gesturing to the brown lumps.

"Rubeus' Famous Rock Cakes," he said simply, pouring himself a much larger goblet.

She bit into one tentatively and nearly broke her teeth. Potter was smirking at her haughtily and she had no choice but to reach for her goblet and attempt to wash the particles down. When she did, she gagged and sputtered, sending liquid flying in all directions.

Laughing now, Potter shook his head and took a deep swing from his own cup. "Not to your tastes?" he asked lightly.

It had tasted worse than the rock cakes.

"What on earth _is_ that foul thing?"

"Traditional German brew. The most authentic beer you'll ever drink; a real history lesson in a cup. The Alamanni used to drink it before they went into battle. But since each morning they had blood meetings to settle old family scores, they drank it just about every day. There are no finer beer makers in the whole world than ethnic Germans. It took me fifteen years to perfect that recipe."

Rose just stared incredulously at the man. How could he possibly imbibe such an _awful_ beverage and then talk lightly of its origins as if they were discussing the weather?

Potter wiped his mouth and tried only somewhat successfully to stifle a belch. "So," he said. "Do you have a last name, Rose?"

"Dane," she said.

"Rose Dane…Can't say I'm familiar. Where are you from, Rose Dane? You have a peculiar accent. You talk like an American doing a piss poor imitation of a Shetlander."

 _Somehow Hermione must have forgotten to mention that Potter was an_ _ **acquired**_ _taste._

"I'm from America originally. But I've lived in Britain most of my life."

"Have any family?"

"No," Rose said shortly. Potter did not press the matter.

"And you say you've seen this place in your dreams?"

"I'm certain of it," she replied. "Everything about it just feels so familiar. Like…like maybe I'm coming back home somehow. I don't know how to describe it. But my heart knows it's true."

Potter observed her shrewdly before replying. "You want a lesson from me? Never trust anything your heart tells you. Wiser men than both of us have called the human heart a traitor. Following it is like to get you into more trouble than you've bargained for."

"Are you an expert on following your heart, Master Potter?" asked Rose.

Potter rolled his eyes and took another swig of beer. "I'm no master, kid."

"Would you prefer 'Lord'?"

He snorted derisively. "Lord Potter? I think not."

"Then what exactly should I call you?"

"Harry. Just Harry. Or Potter, as you prefer."

"With all due respect Master Potter," she smirked as Potter glared at her, "you're not really anything like what I expected."

"And what exactly did you expect?" Potter asked stoically. "Was I supposed to be taller? Better looking? Should I have had a glittering sword strapped at my side or a wild animal as my incomprehensibly powerful familiar, which also doubles as my animagus form?" He laughed at what appeared to be a sort of private joke. "People don't always live up to the fantasies you create for them."

Rose looked impassive, merely brushing a loose strand of wavy brown hair out of her eye. "I don't really care about any of that. It doesn't matter to me if you desperately need a haircut or a shave or that you smell like you haven't bathed in years. I'm here because I believe that you are the best hope we have to make the world better again. No matter _what_ you look like."

Potter had the grace to look affronted. "For your information, I bathe far more regularly than you realize."

"That's good to know," said Rose with a small smile. "Now please, help me understand what's troubling you."

Potter looked as though there were a thousand other things he'd rather be doing. He scowled at her and bought time by biting into a rock cake, deliberately taking his time with the sticky mouthful. Eventually, swallowing, he licked his lips and breathed heavily. "You've been spending too much time with well-meaning but utterly ignorant people."

This time it was Rose's turn to look affronted. "Why?" she asked incredulously. "Because I'm trying to be kind?"

"Because you're trying to accomplish something that is impossible," was his pointed reply. "You think that because I defeated another dark lord forty years ago that I'm somehow more qualified than anyone else to take on another one. But I've got news for you sweetheart, very little of what ultimately brought down Lord Voldemort had to do with me or my own personal skill. I'm not the man to take down Sallust DeVernai. I'm _not_ the solution you're looking for. I'm part of the problem. And despite what you may have been led to believe I'm not a hero. There is nothing you can say that will make me change my mind. I'm never coming back."

"I don't believe you."

"Excuse me?"

The sound of those four words was stupefying. The audacity of this girl, this virtual nonentity, to contradict thirteen years of his resolve was very nearly breathtaking. Potter found himself staring at her trying to make out just what she was all about. What stake could she possibly have in this, beyond that Chosen One tripe?

He studied her carefully, looking for something he may have missed at first. She was pretty in a way. She had a certain rustic charm about her that was revealed in the way she carried herself, and her humorous accent, simple and unaffected by upper class pretensions. But _beaute` classique_ she was not. Beautiful among the peasants, perhaps, but he'd known many noblewomen who blew her out of the water. _Snobbery much, Lord Potter?_

Appraising her more base virtues, he found a chest that was neither impressively large nor embarrassingly small. It seemed that there was nothing about this girl that was anything but ordinary except for the green of her eyes. _And she dreams about a place no one but me should even know exists._ There was that too.

Rose spoke, interrupting his ruminations. "A great man once said 'Harry is the best hope we have. Trust him.' Now I'm saying it to you again. There are people in Britain who believe in you. The Order of the Phoenix believes in you. Children on the streets and in the camps believe in you, in your story-"

"And how would you know what children interred under a dictatorial regime believe?" he interrupted.

"Because I was one of them." Rose leveled him with a gaze that seemed half antagonistic, half admiring. "My parents were murdered when I was six. From then on I lived on the streets doing whatever I had to do to survive. As each day got worse I would hear people whisper your name like a prayer, as if merely calling your name would will you into existence right there at that very spot. I thought they were just legends at first. But then I met people who actually _knew_ you. People who were part of the stories I heard growing up. And they also believed in you. And if they were real then you must be real too. So I started to believe. And when I saw the look in his eyes when I told him Harry Potter would be coming-"

"Who?"

"The Reaver," she said harshly. "Sallust DeVernai's mad dog. When I saw how he reacted to hearing your name…I knew every story I'd ever heard was true. I believe in hope and the triumph of good over evil. I believe that innocence wins over corruption. And I believe that love can really save the world. It happened before, didn't it? I still believe in Harry Potter. Even if you don't."

Her monologue was simple and plain spoken, apparently the girl's hallmarks. But they struck a chord. Potter no longer snorted or rolled his eyes dismissively. He did not sneer or contradict or offer any number of reasons why she was wasting her time. His gaze was somber and thoughtful, as though he were reliving haunted moments long since banished to the backwaters of time and memory. If Rose looked hard enough she believed she saw what might even be a modicum of guilt. And there was something else. Like him, she had noticed the similarity of their eyes. No one else she had ever met had eyes the exact same shade of green as her own. It was her defining feature, she thought, something beautiful that set her apart from everyone else.

Until now.

Because Harry Potter possessed a pair of eyes as green and natural as her own, something that unnerved her more than it ought to. And in those eyes right now was pain as clear and vivid as if given bodily form. There was something going on about which Rose did not know; something she had not been prepared for, despite hours in talks with Hermione. Maybe Hermione herself had not known. Was that likely?

"There's something else," she said quietly. "Something important."

Harry looked at her. Nothing else. Just looked.

"Hermione Weasley believes in you. She told me to tell you that. She believes in Harry Potter, probably more than anyone else. Please, Harry," she said, using his given name as he had asked. "Come back to the ones who love you. They need you more than ever."

There are moments when time seems to stand still. This was one of those moments.

Rose Dane watched Harry Potter for what might only have been a few seconds; but they stretched further into eternity than the human mind could even conceive. His face went through a number of different emotions, some obvious and natural: pain, shame, grief, admiration. And others of a very different variety. Rose could not place them all, but one emotion she could read very clearly. It was the final emotion to register, first in the eyes and then full in the face: this was anger, nay, _fury_.

Potter was livid.

"Hermione _Weasley_ ," he sneered. "Now _there's_ a name for you. Perfect example of exactly the sort of thing I'm talking about. She used to be called Hermione Granger, did you know that?" She did, in fact, but Potter did not wait for her to respond.

"She was the sharpest, most intelligent girl of her generation; _everyone_ expected that she would go on to greatness. The first muggle-born minister, perhaps, or maybe she would rise even higher. Maybe the first female muggle-born to earn a seat on the International Confederation. Would you like to know what she ended up doing instead?"

Potter's words were venom, spoken so harshly that Rose felt a tangible change in the complexion of the air.

He plowed on.

"She ended up marrying a man with whom she had no chemistry whatsoever, whose values and ethics were the exact antithesis of her own. He knocked her up and she ended up mothering a child _that she didn't even want_. She cast it off at the first opportunity. Like I said, people don't live up to the fantasies we create for them."

Rose was under no illusions that anyone in the Order was a saint, not even its leader. But Potter's words contrasted so sharply with what she knew about the woman's character that she felt as though he had slapped her. It was shocking.

"Let me give you another lesson: If you're taking your cues from the Weasley family, do yourself a favor and _stop it_. You'll only be disappointed."

His words, like fire, seared a hole into her heart. It wasn't just that the words were cruel or that they cast aspersions on the character of a woman she admired. Through time and space she was transported back into the crumbling castle, over a thousand years of history and broken rubble. She could feel the white hot flashes of light as the Reaver fired at her. She could hear the bursting of rock as loud and immediate as though she were physically present. She could see his face, beautiful and terrible and so unexpected…

 _I see. You want to become a Weasley. They do have a tendency to absorb the unwary. Don't trust them. They'll only disappoint you._

"What's the matter with you?"

Potter's voice ripped her away from her memories and shoved her roughly back into the present. She had been hyperventilating and was sweating profusely.

"You," she said accusingly.

"What about me?"

"You sound just like the Reaver."

If Potter had expected an angry retort, he had not expected this. All color drained from his face and his eyes bulged wildly. He looked possessed. "What did you say to me?" he said dangerously.

"The Reaver," Rose spat defiantly. "The monster who murdered your best friend Ron Weasley, your other best friend's _husband_ not even a month ago. You sound just like him!"

Potter looked like he was going to be physically sick. "Get out." His words were ice and his eyes were as pitiless as any Rose had ever seen; the Reaver's included.

"Get out!" Potter repeated. "Get out of my house. Get out of my forest. Leave me and don't ever try to find this place again. I promise, you won't be able to. I've humored you long enough."

"You haven't actually explained _anything_ to me!"

Potter cleared the space between them in two strides and slammed his fists on the table. "I told you I'm not coming back and I told you why! I'm part of the problem you're trying to solve. I didn't come here thirteen years ago just because I wanted to become one with nature! I came here to avoid a repeat of my mistakes; mistakes that gave the world Sallust DeVernai. And I think I've told you just about _enough_. Good luck with your quest. Now GET. OUT."

Rose could feel Potter's magic swirling dangerously. With one final disgusted look at the man and the house, she got up and moved to the door, pausing at the threshold. "You're right about one thing Potter." She swept him up and down contemptuously. "You're no hero."

xXx

 **August 30, 1998**

Harry Potter swept Hermione Granger up in a hug that conveyed all of the emotions he usually kept bottled up inside. Usually Hermione was the initiator of any physical displays of affection, but they had been limited since the end of the war and the official beginning of her relationship with Ron.

But on this night Harry wanted to make sure he conveyed to her all of the appreciation he felt for her role in practically every adventure he'd undertaken on the long road to victory.

"Hermione," he said into the curls of her hair. "You will never understand how much I appreciate all that you've done for me. I would have died so many times without your quick thinking. There is no way I ever could have won if it hadn't been for you. I'd have been a goner way back in fourth year. But you've always been there for me. You've never left and I never told you exactly how that makes me feel about you."

Hermione disentangled herself from Harry's embrace and looked at him tearfully, her heart swelling with pride at the man he had become.

"I love you. Not in any uncomfortable way. But I do. I love Ron too but…it's different with you. You're the most loyal friend I have. And you needed to know. And now you do. So, thank you…for everything you've ever done for me."

The words were not graceful, but they were genuine and Hermione appreciated that. She knew how difficult it was for him to be open about his feelings and she appreciated _that_ as well.

"Harry," she said, "you have no idea how much that means to me. And I know what you mean. I love you too; it's not wrong for us to say that. Really, after everything we've been through together it's only natural. I just wish you didn't have to go."

Harry smiled a sad sort of smile. "It's for the best. I mean, Voldemort's gone, sure, but he's not the only dark lord there's ever been and he won't be the last either. When I think about the things people like him and Dumbledore were able to do I…just feel so inadequate. I thought that with the war over all I'd want to do is settle down and do nothing for the rest of my life. But that's not really realistic, or very responsible. Eventually, someone will try again. And I'd like to be ready. I want as full an understanding of magic as possible. Getting away from all of _this_ " he gestured around at their surroundings, indicating, well…everything, "is just the icing on the cake."

She could scarcely believe that Harry Potter, her Harry, was going to travel the world to study advanced magic. On his own with no prompting from anyone. He really had grown up.

"I just wish you were coming back to Hogwarts with me," Hermione said. "Can't you put your trip on hold just one more year?"

She knew it was already settled but still needed to try. She had no idea how long he would be gone for. And if things progressed with Ron like she thought they would…well, things would be very different when he finally made it back.

"Sorry, but if I don't go now I'll never go. The Weasley's wouldn't let me." He grinned at her but she detected a hint of resentment in his eyes. Harry loved the Weasley's but he did feel somewhat stifled by them at times; the women in particular. "You'll see to the letters for me?"

Hermione nodded. "I'll make sure they're delivered exactly as you requested." Moments passed in silence until Hermione flung herself at him in her own crushing embrace. "Harry James Potter you had better be careful out there! And if you meet some sexy foreign girl you had better use protection!"

"Hermione!" Harry said, outraged. But they both burst out laughing together.

After a long, pregnant silence, Harry rubbed the back of his head and shuffled his feet. "I should get going."

"Of course," Hermione replied.

The pair embraced one final time. Then Harry placed a tender kiss on his loyal friend's forehead, backed away a few steps so that he was outside of the Burrow's apparition wards, and disappeared into the air.

Hermione remained rooted where she stood for a long time afterwards. She was very proud of Harry but could not shake the feeling that something had been irreparably altered in the dynamic she had come to rely on for the past seven years. As she gazed into the night, she wondered where Harry would go to first, how he would manage to take care of himself on his own, and whether or not she would ever meet a hero of his like again.


End file.
